


Fluffy New Year 2017

by Dragonflies_and_Katydids



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: ALL THE FLUFF, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Spies & Secret Agents, Canon Compliant, Dogs, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Fluffy New Year 2017, Gift Giving, M/M, Meet-Cute, Requited Unrequited Love, Tumblr Prompts, eh whatever, more gift giving, or maybe lust, probably the only time i'll ever use THAT tag, tis the season
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-21
Updated: 2017-01-01
Packaged: 2018-09-10 19:08:17
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 9,884
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8929843
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dragonflies_and_Katydids/pseuds/Dragonflies_and_Katydids
Summary: A collection of fluffy prompt-fills from tumblr, trying to ring in 2017 right. All the fluff!





	1. Felix/Carver

If there’s one thing Felix would change about himself, it’s how susceptible he is to sympathetic embarrassment. When he was a kid, watching other kids getting teased had been enough to make him cry, and he still cringes inside when someone else does something stupid, even if he can at least keep a straight face these days. Most of the time, anyway.

And of course that’s all it is tonight, as the minutes tick by and table fourteen remains a table for one. Just sympathetic embarrassment for a guy who’s clearly been stood up by his date and is too something–-optimistic? naïve? stubborn?–-to admit it. That the guy is cute has _nothing_ to do with _anything_.

“It doesn’t,” Felix insists in a low voice as he reaches across the bar to take the bottle of wine Table Fourteen has been nursing for the last hour. “It’s just a shitty thing to do to someone, and I feel bad for him.”

“Of course,” Dorian says, too serious to actually be serious. “I’m sure your phone number would make him feel better.”

Felix ignores that the way it deserves and crosses the dining room, trying to make his expression some happy medium between professional and sympathetic. Because he is sympathetic, but he also doesn’t want the guy to think he’s being laughed at. Laughing is definitely not what Felix is doing behind his back.

Drooling, maybe, but not laughing.

“Would you like another glass?” Felix murmurs when he’s standing at the table.

The guy sighs and pokes his phone with a dejected finger. “Sure.”

His tone is so glum that Felix can’t help himself. “I’m sorry,” he says. “It’s really rude of her to stand you up like this.”

“What?” The guy blinks up at him, startled, then flushes and looks away. “It’s fine. Shouldn’t have said yes anyway. Fucking blind dates.” The flush creeps higher across his face. “Ummm, sorry. Pardon my language.”

“I’ve heard the word before,” Felix says with a smile, and he feels a little thrill when it gets an answering smile, however reluctant.

“Yeah, prob'ly.” The guy hooks a finger under the knot of his tie and tugs at it, something he’s done about a hundred times tonight. Felix watches from the corner of his eye and bites his tongue on an offer to help with the tie, and the suit jacket, and the shirt. Something _he’s_ done about a hundred times tonight.

In an effort to redirect his thoughts, Felix hefts the wine bottle a little and asks, “Did you want to finish it off?”

The guy picks up his phone and fiddles with it. “I’m Carver.” He doesn’t look at Felix when he says it, and his tone is nearly belligerent.

It’s pretty aggressive for an introduction, but the last hour would leave anyone in a bad mood, so he just says, “I’m Felix.”

“I know,” Carver says, still toying with his phone. “I remember.”

When Carver says nothing else, Felix tries one last time. “Did you want something else to drink? Or should I just bring the check?”

“Sorry,” Carver mutters, still sounding angry. “I shoulda left, didn’t mean to take up your table.”

“It’s fine,” Felix assures him. Which is only half a lie. Thursday night isn’t exactly busy, and Felix certainly hasn’t minded the scenery.

“No…ummm…” Carver stalls out, his fingers tightening on his phone. “I…ummm…I was going to leave, but…?”

Felix waits expectantly, for a question, or a statement, or a something, but Carver just stares at his phone like it’s personally offended him. Eventually, Felix prompts gently, “But…?”

“Him,” Carver blurts out, almost talking over Felix.

Without thinking, Felix glances around the dining room, trying to figure out who Carver is talking about. “Him who?”

“Him,” Carver repeats more emphatically, but this time he goes on. “You said…you said it was rude of _her_ to stand me up.”

And while Felix is still digesting that, Carver straightens in his chair and finally faces him, looking like a man about to throw himself off a cliff and hope his parachute works. “And I was going to leave thirty minutes ago, except if I did, I couldn’t get your number, could I?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/154702816852/prompt-5-for-fluffy-new-year-2017-felix)


	2. Cullen/Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is set a couple months after the end of [Only True in Fairy Tales](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3859360/chapters/8618875). Which would be after that Christmas epilogue I keep promising y'all.

The house is empty when Dorian gets home, and he stands in the doorway for a second, shoving down the surge of disappointment. It’s ridiculous and childish, not to mention pointless. He _knew_ Cullen wouldn’t be here, after all; less than two weeks into his new job, he can hardly take time off in the middle of the afternoon just so he can be here when Dorian gets home.

 _You’ve been gone four days,_ Dorian reminds himself. _Not four months._

It doesn’t help.

_He was going to be here, but you told him not to do it._

That doesn’t help either, because it’s completely true and completely useless against the loneliness that rises up to follow the disappointment. That Cullen will be home in a few hours only means Dorian feels stupid, on top of lonely and disappointed.

“Okay,” he says out loud. “Okay.”

He takes a deep breath and forces himself to stop throttling the doorknob and actually walk into the damn house. It’s been five days since he had a decent night’s sleep, and almost fifteen hours since he last ate. What he needs is some food, and a shower, and a nap, and by the time that’s done, Cullen will be home and Dorian can stop feeling like a needy child.

He’s so busy feeling sorry for himself that he’s almost past the kitchen table before he notices what’s on it. Which is pretty fucking embarrassing, given his line of work, but he’s too busy staring to think about that much.

Because there’s a place set neatly at the spot where he usually sits: a covered plate with a napkin folded beside it and three bottles of water positioned in a precise triangle above it.

More cautiously than it really deserves, Dorian rounds the table to peel back the plastic wrap. The plate’s contents are nothing fancy–two peanut butter sandwiches, a big handful of carrot sticks, and a peeled and segmented orange–but it doesn’t matter. His throat still closes up, and he has to crack open one of the bottles of water to clear it.

 _You will not cry over peanut butter sandwiches,_ he informs himself. _Absolutely. Will. Not._

Another sip of water helps him get himself under control, and the instant he takes a bite of the first sandwich, he stops thinking about anything except food. When he’s done, he takes out his phone and texts Cullen with a picture of the empty plate and the crumpled remains of the plastic bottles.

Underneath the picture, he types, _I love you too_ , then heads for the shower, whistling to himself as he climbs the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/154745775212/you-asked-for-this-just-remember-that-d)


	3. Isabela/Hawke

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt (only slightly bent): someone Isabela likes buys her a larger ship.

The Lowtown docks are busier than usual, crews rushing everywhere to unload the four ships that just docked. In the humid heat of the afternoon, Isabela weaves easily through all of it, drinking in the smell of salt water and fish and wood that will never dry all the way through. Here and there, a few people are wrinkling their noses against the same smell, but to Isabela, this is what home smells like.

She doesn't come down this way often, not when all those ships are a painful reminder of the one she lost to the Qunari, and she wouldn't be here today except for Hawke. Not that Hawke was in the least bit forthcoming about what she wanted, or even exactly where she would be, which leaves Isabela wandering up and down the docks until finally-- _finally_ \--she spots a familiar cap of dark hair, blown into disarray by the wind.

Hawke is looking the other way at the moment, leaving Isabela free to study her for some sign of why they might be meeting here, without any of the others. There's little to be gleaned from her expression: she's smiling cheerfully down at a small, plump man who's smiling just as cheerfully back up at her, but since Hawke is as likely to smile before she kills someone as before she kisses them, it doesn't really help. The only hint is her clothing, the simple tunic and trousers she wears when she isn't planning on a fight. Not that Hawke ever has trouble finding a fight, planned or not.

A glance up and down the pier tells Isabela nothing more before she's distracted by the ship behind Hawke. The crew is mostly at ease, the cargo presumably unloaded earlier, and the ship herself...

The ship herself is beautiful. A little smaller than the one Isabela lost, and definitely newer, but not so new she looks like some merchant prince's toy. A ship that's seen both storms and the deadly calm of the open seas, and come back home again despite them. A ship eager to return to them, to run before the wind until there's nothing but water all around.

It's almost physically painful to look away, but Isabela does it. Hawke. She's here to see what mischief Hawke is making now, and since Hawke is excellent at making mischief, Isabela knows the ship will be forgotten in a few moments.

Probably.

At that moment, Hawke looks up from her conversation, and her smile blooms into a grin. "Isabela!" she calls, waving enthusiastically, as if there was somehow a chance she might be overlooked. "Come see!"

Obligingly, Isabela works her way through the crowds to Hawke's side, offering a nod of greeting to the small man who now has his hands tucked deep in his pockets. He's smiling at her now, the same delighted smile he was giving Hawke a moment ago, and Isabela is momentarily taken aback. Strangers don't usually smile at her like that, particularly men. Not unless she counts leering. Which she doesn't.

"Come see what?" Isabela asks, when the two of them just continue to smile at her, co-conspirators in a plot she doesn't yet know.

Hawke looks at her as if she's lost her mind, then turns to wave a hand at the ship Isabela was lusting over before. "Look!"

Isabela looks, letting her eyes roam over the deck and the ropes and the sails furled high above their heads. "She's beautiful," Isabela says wistfully.

Then understanding dawns, and she looks back at Hawke, excited. "Are you buying her?" It’s not quite as good as owning the ship herself, but Isabela has no doubt Hawke will take her along whenever she wants to go.

"Not buying." Hawke grins wider--a thing which shouldn't even be possible--and bounces on the balls of her feet. "Bought. Bought and paid for."

She tilts her chin at the man beside her, who looks happy enough that Isabela doesn't even want to guess how badly Hawke was overcharged. Rather than mention it, Isabela just repeats, "She's beautiful." The compliment comes easily, because it's true, and even truer now that Isabela might get the chance to climb those ropes and watch Hawke at the helm, far below her.

"She's yours," Hawke says. "I thought about getting you one of those ships in a bottle, but what good is that? Just a thing to sit on the shelf and get dusty, and I decided this was better."

The words make no sense at first, just nonsense syllables that Isabela tries again and again to understand. "What?"

"She's yours." Hawke turns a little to look at the ship and give it a once-over before nodding firmly. "She is beautiful, isn't she?"

"She's yours?" Isabela echoes, because it doesn't make sense any other way.

Hawke laughs, that delighted, booming laugh that's too big for someone whose head barely clears Isabela's shoulder. "She's _yours_."

"No." The word just falls out, not a rejection of the gift but a denial of the entire idea.

The man looks taken aback, but Hawke just grins. "Yes."

"Hawke..." For a moment, no other words will come, and Isabela has to clear her throat and start over. "Hawke, you can't just buy me a _ship_!"

"Don't see why not," Hawke says with a careless shrug, still looking unreasonably pleased with herself. "I just did."

"No," Isabela says again patiently, as if she's explaining this to a child. Why can't Hawke understand? The woman has never done anything by halves, has never really understood the idea of restraint or the proper scale of things, but this...this is ridiculous even by the skewed standards Hawke has taught her. "You can't spend money like that on-"

"On you?" Hawke interrupts. Her grin has tamped itself down a bit without disappearing completely. "Why not? What's the point of having money if I can't spend it?"

"It's too much," Isabela says weakly. Her eyes rise against her will, and she takes in the ship again, following the smooth curves of wood from bow to stern.

"It's for you," Hawke says softly. She steps between Isabela and the ship and curls a hand around the back of her neck, pulling her head down so their foreheads are pressed together. "It's not too much."

She can't breathe, can't move, can't think, caught by Hawke as she has been before, as she will be again. As she wants to be, always.

Hawke comes up on her toes for a kiss, then lingers to whisper against her mouth, "It can never be too much."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/154830545207/someone-isabela-likes-buys-her-a-larger-ship)


	4. Alistair/Zevran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "alistair/zevran, something with hair braiding or combing or cutting? bonus points for *insufficient skill* joke"
> 
> I kind of came at the "insufficient skill" joke sideways, but ah well.

Alistair generally considers himself reasonably good with his hands--he'd be a poor swordsman otherwise--but it turns out that cutting his own hair is harder than he thought it would be. Well, cutting his own hair with something other than a sharp knife, and with a higher goal in mind than keeping his vision clear. Up until now, he's mostly concerned himself with getting the chore done quickly; it's not as if the darkspawn care what he looks like.

The Landsmeet, on the other hand, will care very much. Will, in fact, be judging him on every hair out of place and every smudge on his armor, and judging the Grey Wardens based on their judgment of him. And so here he is, glaring at his reflection in the freshly polished surface of his breastplate and trying to cut his hair without cutting off an ear.

He's busy contemplating whether a missing ear is better or worse than an uneven haircut, and so he doesn't hear anything until Zevran gives a long-suffering sigh and says, "Please stop."

Fortunately, the scissors were nowhere near anything delicate, because Alistair jumps almost straight in the air and comes down facing the other direction, scissors held out in front of him like a knife.

Zevran raises an eyebrow, a smirk twitching at the corners of his mouth. "And I thought me had moved past such hostilities."

Alistair stares at him blankly for a moment, then looks down at the scissors and flushes. Dropping his hand to his side, he straightens from the crouch he'd fallen into without thinking. "Sorry," he mutters, not entirely sincere. "You startled me."

"I had rather come to that conclusion, yes." Zevran is still smirking, his arms crossed over his chest, and Alistair feels the weird rush of embarrassment and lust he's learned to associate almost exclusively with Zevran. Zevran, and that smirk.

Rather than think about it--he's gotten very good at not thinking about it over the last year--he tries going on the offensive. "Don't you ever knock?" He shut the door to his room before he started, in order to avoid exactly the sort of comments Zevran is likely to make, and...

Alistair's head jerks up. "Hey! I locked that door!"

"You did," Zevran says agreeably. "And I unlocked it."

"You weren't any good at that when it mattered last time," Alistair mutters.

"Ah, but this is your room," Zevran says, eyes going wide and innocent. "I found that ever so much more...motivating."

The last thing Alistair needs is Zevran flirting with him in that careless way he flirts with everyone. Especially when they're standing ten feet away from a bed more than big enough for both of them.

Maker save him, something _else_ he doesn't need to be thinking about. Better to go back to the beginning of this conversation and hope he can do a better job of avoiding Zevran's flirting this time. "What am I supposed to be stopping?"

"That." Zevran uncrosses his arms and steps forward to take the scissors from Alistair's unresisting hand. "Our fearless leader will not be pleased if I allow you to do such unspeakable things to your hair."

Alistair wants to object, to say that he's perfectly capable of doing this without any help, except that they both know that for a lie. With Zevran standing so close, Alistair can't even think of a good excuse, and while he's wracking his brains, Zevran steps even closer.

"Now, then" Zevran says, peering up at Alistair from far, far too close. "You clearly lack the skill for this, so why not ask for someone's assistance?"

Because at least for this task, the only real options among their companions are Zevran and Leliana. They're about equally terrifying, for much the same reasons, but the other options are worse. Alistair has no intention of allowing Morrigan that close to him with anything sharp, the Maker only knows what Sten would do, Wynne would take the opportunity to lecture him, and Oghren probably couldn't even hold the scissors right now, not after everything he's drunk tonight.

"I can do it," Alistair protests weakly. He's finding it hard to be emphatic when Zevran is tugging at strands of his hair, pulling them this way and that as if gauging how much to cut.

"Of course you can," Zevran says, in a tone that doesn't even try not to be patronizing. "And you can look ridiculous before the Landsmeet as well. But why would you wish to do any such thing?"

If it would mean not having Zevran close enough that his breath is warm against Alistair's neck, looking ridiculous in front of all of Ferelden's arls and banns would be a fair trade.

Not that he can say so to Zevran.

"Everybody was busy," he tries instead.

"And yet, here I am," Zevran replies, "entirely not busy. So come along, my friend. We shall make sure you don't embarrass the Grey Wardens, yes?"

He steps away, but Alistair's relief is temporary: Zevran's hand locks around his upper arm almost immediately, steering him across the room to sit on the stool beside the bed. Getting closer to the bed was definitely not what Alistair wanted, not when Zevran is standing in front of him, playing with his hair and humming thoughtfully.

The scissors snip sharply right beside his ear, and he twitches, jolted momentarily out of his complete focus on exactly how close Zevran is.

"This will work ever so much better if you hold still," Zevran says, and Alistair doesn't think he's imagining that note of sadistic cheer.

"It'd be easier if you'd quit startling me," Alistair mutters.

"Then I suppose I must find other ways to amuse myself," Zevran says. Which sounds dangerous, but when the scissors close again, it's slower, and Alistair manages not to jump.

The problem, of course, is that once he's no longer concerned over the continued well-being of his ears, all he can do is think about Zevran's fingers in his hair and Zevran's body leaning over him, close enough Alistair would swear he can feel the heat of it. His eyes drift closed despite his best intentions, and he listens to Zevran humming, to the soft shuffle of his feet as he moves around to one side or the other. The noise has to be intentional--the rug beside the bed is soft, where Zevran can walk over hard stone in complete silence--and it makes Alistair smile to recognize that small courtesy.

He's actually disappointed when Zevran puts aside the scissors and runs both hands vigorously through Alistair's hair to shake loose the cut ends. It would be easy enough for Alistair to do it himself, but he doesn't protest, wanting that contact for just a few moments longer.

Except that it isn't just a few moments. Zevran's fingers dig in to his scalp and then down to his neck and across to his shoulders, forcing out the tension that's been there since Alistair realized that he really would have to stand before the Landsmeet to represent Ferelden's Grey Wardens. The Landsmeet terrifies him the way no darkspawn ever could.

It's hard to remember that with Zevran working his muscles back to laxness, and somehow, Alistair ends up with his forehead resting on Zevran's chest and Zevran's hands cradling the back of his head.

"There now," Zevran murmurs, but he doesn't move away. If anything, his fingers spread wider, digging in again very gently. "Is that not ever so much better?"

"Mm-hm," Alistair agrees, caught somewhere between sleep and arousal. He feels lazy and warm, like a cat in a sunbeam. He wants to be closer, and he doesn't want to move at all.

Zevran's hands slide forward to cup his face and lift his head away, pushing him gently back. Alistair makes a protesting noise, but he blinks his eyes open anyway, trying to gather himself back together.

The first thing he sees when he opens his eyes is Zevran staring down at him, and Alistair once again forgets what he was doing. A faint smile curls one corner of Zevran's mouth, a mouth that Alistair finds he has trouble tearing his gaze away from. In his current state, leaning up to kiss that mouth seems like a very good idea.

"Ah," Zevran murmurs. The other corner of his mouth curves up for some mysterious reason, and his hands shift again, tilting Alistair's head farther back, until their eyes meet. It must be all over his face, how much he wants Zevran right now, but he can't seem to regain control of his body. Before he can truly begin, Zevran leans down and kisses him.

Alistair's lips part on a gasp of surprise, and Zevran takes instant advantage, his tongue flicking out to taste Alistair's mouth. The next sound that escapes him is a groan as he pushes up into the kiss, hands clutching fistfuls of Zevran's shirt. He opens his mouth wider, letting Zevran in, wanting him in, wanting _him_.

Zevran breaks the kiss, straightening enough that Alistair can no longer reach his mouth. He's still close, though, his hands still cupping Alistair's face, and when Alistair manages to once again pry his eyes open, Zevran doesn't look anything like someone trying to find a way to let someone else down gently.

"You are a difficult man to seduce," Zevran says.

"I...what?" His brain is too slow, too occupied with the memory of Zevran's mouth on his.

"You are a difficult man to seduce," Zevran repeats, enunciating each word. "Later, I will tell you exactly how many times you have provided Leliana with amusement, these last months."

"I have?"

"You have." Zevran's thumb traces his lower lip, and Alistair forgets what he was going to say next. "She has been much entertained by watching you ignore every one of my suggestions that we might become more than friends."

"I did?" Alistair has no memory of Zevran ever treating him differently than anyone else. The constant flirting is, well, constant. Not to mention indiscriminate.

Zevran makes a sound that's half sigh, half laugh. "You did, on more than one occasion. And I will list out each one of them, if you wish." He leans in again, his mouth almost close enough to kiss. "But later."

"Later," Alistair agrees, and kisses him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/154873593382/alistairzevran-something-with-hair-braiding-or)


	5. Dorian/Sutherland

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "Dorian/Sutherland again, write whatever and I'd be thrilled! But here are some tropes I think might work for them. Professor/grad student. CEO/company rising star and then the slightly out there one, spy/new recruit."
> 
> I liked the last one best. :)

The problem with night ops, Sutherland is learning, is that they happen at...well... _night_. And night is dark, which means he can't see shit, and night is quiet, which means that when he trips over a box, the crash echoes up and down the alley, announcing their presence to everyone in the vicinity.

"Fuck," Dorian whispers as someone shouts a challenge from the street to their left.

Sutherland ducks his head, able to read Dorian's glare even in the dark. "Sorry."

"Sorry later," Dorian says, shoving him toward the right and away from the rapidly-approaching beam of a flashlight. "Run now."

He hasn't even finished talking before he's bolting past Sutherland, running about a hundred times more quietly than should really be humanly possible. Not that Sutherland stops to think about it: he's too busy trying to keep up without making _too_ much noise. Dorian will be scathing enough later; there's no point in giving him more ammunition for the lecture that will come as soon as they're away.

A lecture Sutherland knows he deserves, but that doesn't mean he wants it.

And always assuming they get away. The guard is still in pursuit, shouting into his radio without breaking stride, and Sutherland pours everything he has into keeping up with Dorian. The other problem with a night op is that there are no crowds to lose themselves in, not out here, and their only chance is to be faster than whatever reinforcements are on the way.

Dorian turns onto the empty street at the end of the alley, then makes an almost immediate left into another alley. The turn is so sharp Sutherland almost blows right by him, and he doesn't manage to avoid bouncing off the corner. Brick scrapes his cheek, but he manages to keep his arm over his utility belt and all the wonderfully hard bits of plastic and metal that would make so much noise if they hit the wall with him.

Face stinging, Sutherland straightens himself out and jogs toward Dorian, who's paused a few feet away to be sure Sutherland is keeping up. "Go!" Sutherland whispers, and Dorian nods once, sharply, before dashing off again.

They run for what feels like miles, until Dorian comes to a halt just short of a street with actual traffic. The alley is so narrow their shoulders brush the opposite walls, but Sutherland can hear cars and catch occasional glimpses of people. No one glances their way, the streetlights not bright enough to reach them.

Dorian is pulling off his gear, stuffing it into a backpack that would do any college student proud, and Sutherland imitates him, tossing his own gear on top of Dorian's with more speed than care. He's pretty sure they haven't lost their pursuers, and if it were anyone but Dorian, Sutherland would wonder why they were wasting their lead. Dorian's never let him down yet, though, and he has years of experience, so Sutherland follows his lead and hopes Dorian's winning streak isn't about to come to a very painful end.

"Come on," Dorian says, slinging the backpack over one shoulder and grabbing Sutherland's hand.

Despite the urgent note under the words, Dorian doesn't run. Instead, he walks toward the brightly-lit street like he has all the time in the world, his tight grip on Sutherland's hand the only sign he isn't as calm as he looks.

As they turn out into the street, Dorian steps closer, and Sutherland puts an arm around his shoulders without thinking.

"Good," Dorian murmurs. "Now try to look infatuated." He tilts his head to aim a flirtatious grin in Sutherland's direction. "It shouldn't be difficult, given my dashing good looks."

And just like that, Sutherland’s world turns sideways.

In all the months Dorian has been training him, Sutherland has never once considered him as anything except a teacher. He'd hoped maybe someday to count Dorian as a friend and an equal, but a boyfriend? The idea would have made him laugh, ten seconds ago.

Now that the suggestion has been made, however, it doesn't seem nearly so funny. His brain grabs the idea and runs with it, ten miles ahead while Sutherland is still gaping in its wake, trying to figure out what the hell just happened. Since his feet remember to move when Dorian does, his distraction isn't fatal, but he's having trouble doing anything with his face except blinking.

Dorian glances at him again, and his mouth quirks. "I was hoping you'd go for something slightly less shell-shocked, but I suppose it's plausible you would be overwhelmed by my presence."

Sutherland gives that the snort of contempt it deserves, and Dorian's smile loses its mocking edge. He's right there, close enough to kiss, and for fuck's sake, why is that suddenly so exciting? They've stood this close before, and sometimes closer, and Sutherland's never before had trouble tearing his eyes away from Dorian's mouth.

"Perfect," Dorian murmurs. "Now keep that up."

Several inappropriate jokes go through Sutherland's head, but he stifles all of them and tries not to trip over his feet as he lets Dorian guide them down the sidewalk. There are enough people around, it should be possible to lose themselves so long as they don't draw too much of the wrong kind of attention.

At the corner, they pause for the light and Dorian glances back. Whatever he sees makes his eyes narrow briefly. "Incoming," he says, still in that low voice, like he's whispering endearments in Sutherland's ear.

Then he turns and steps even closer, putting his hand on Sutherland's cheek and effectively hiding the scrape from anyone who might notice. He's smiling now, his eyes crinkling at the corners, and Sutherland is struck with the urge to smooth his thumb over those lines.

Well, Dorian wanted him to act like they're dating, right?

Sutherland gives in to the impulse.

Dorian's skin is warm, his jaw lightly stubbled, and he turns his face into Sutherland's palm, looking up at him like he's thinking about all kinds of inappropriate things. It's hard to breathe with him this close, and when he leans in so they're almost kissing, Sutherland wonders if he's about to become the world's youngest heart attack victim.

Behind him, a pair of feet jog past. From his left, there's a chorus of startled curses, and then nothing but the normal sounds of a city street at nearly midnight.

"There," Dorian says, satisfied. Then he gives Sutherland a sharp look. "Don't stop, though. The last thing we need is someone to notice us now."

He tucks himself back into the curve of Sutherland's arm, and they walk on, a nonchalant stroll completely at odds with the way Sutherland's heart thuds in his ears. It makes a nice bass note to all the wild things going through his brain. Dorian whispering "don't stop"--in completely different circumstances--features prominently.

Yeah, somehow Sutherland doesn't think he's going to have any trouble staring at Dorian like a teenager in lust for the first time. The problem will be when he needs to stop.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/154960594387/prompt-3-for-fluffy-new-year-2017)


	6. Alistair/Zevran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Complete and utter tooth-rotting fluff. Also, literal fluff! Because what's a fluff-a-thon without puppies?

The Crows taught him well, driving the lessons home in ways only they could. They taught him how to be silent, and how to be invisible, and how to focus on nothing but the mission. People have paid thousands of sovereigns for his work, and only two have ever gone away unhappy. When he was younger, he would take it as a challenge to accept the jobs no one thought could be done, just to be able to say he had done them. He's not quite so foolhardy now, but he remains a skilled assassin, one of the best the Crows have ever trained.

And yet, despite all those skills, he somehow can't manage to deliver one package.

"I blame you," he informs the package in Antivan, pitching his voice low. "As a partner, you leave much to be desired."

The blanket in his arm shifts, and a small black nose pokes out from the folds of cloth, quivering in excitement. Before Zevran can get the blanket back into place, the bundle wriggles again, and more of the blanket falls away. Dark eyes peer at him as fuzzy ears prick up, and a small, hopeful whine breaks the quiet of the hallway.

"And this is exactly what I mean," Zevran whispers, shaking his finger right under that twitching nose. "We must be quick and silent, and you are neither."

The ears droop a little, and a pink tongue swipes at his finger as if in apology.

"Yes, well, consider this your last warning," he says, trying to be stern. "You are supposed to be more clever than most, so I expect to see some sign of that."

His finger gets another lick, and then, exactly as if it understood him, the Mabari pup burrows its head back down into the blankets. As it lacks hands, the effort isn't very successful, but Zevran says in a mollified tone, "That's better. See that you remember this little talk better than our last one."

Pulling the blanket back into place, Zevran gives the hallway another quick glance. Still no sign of Alistair, thank the Maker and Eamon's long-windedness, but there's no telling how long that will last. The timing is already too close for Zevran's comfort; he'd seriously underestimated how long it would take him to get here from the kennels. It wasn't supposed to be this difficult to smuggle one Mabari across a courtyard and up two flights of stairs, but he hadn't taken into account the time to chase the pup down, wrap it in a blanket, remove the blanket--and his fingers--from between its needle-sharp teeth, wrap it in the blanket _again_ , haul it halfway across the courtyard, chase it down again, wrap it in the blanket again, haul it the rest of the way across the courtyard, play an extended game of tug over the blanket, and wrap it yet again in the bedraggled remains of what had once been a nearly-new horse blanket.

That was when they'd had their first little talk, and the pup had been quiet enough since then, if getting heavier by the moment. Zevran has carried heavier weights farther, but not usually half a day after fighting an archdemon.

"You will be carrying yourself once I have delivered you," he tells the pup. "Just so we are clear."

It snuffles at him from under the blankets.

"No," he says. "I will not be swayed on this. You have four perfectly good feet, which I might point out is twice as many as I have, and you will-"

"Zevran?"

Years of training save him from jumping, but he does turn too fast, almost overbalancing as the pup shifts its weight. Alistair--because of course it's Alistair--blinks at him in surprise, though whether at his uncharacteristic lack of grace or at the squirming bundle in his arms is unclear.

"Who were you talking to?" Alistair asks, looking past Zevran's shoulder as if someone might be hiding behind him. "And what..."

Alistair trails off as the pup's nose pokes back out of the blankets, quivering even harder than before. "What is that?"

The Crows weren't very forgiving of failure, but that doesn't mean Zevran hasn't learned when to cut his losses.

"Rather a lot of trouble is what it is," he says with a careless shrug, as if his shoulders aren't screaming from the effort. "I found it, and I thought you might like it, but it has yet to live up to its reputation. Your Mabari are not nearly as clever as I had been told."

The pup whines again, shaking back the blanket to stare at him as if he's just told it he plans to chain it in the dungeon without food or water.

"It's a puppy," Alistair says, sounding strangled.

"That's hardly an excuse," Zevran says, but he scratches at those ears anyway, smiling as they perk back up.

"A Mabari puppy," Alistair says. He sounds more dazed than strangled now, and he hasn't taken his eyes off the blanket.

"Your powers of observation are quite overwhelming."

Alistair blinks and finally raises his eyes, a smile blooming across his face. "You got me a Mabari."

Zevran waves this off as best he can with his arms full. "I merely found it. Much as our fearless leader seems to find strays."

"You found it," Alistair repeats, still grinning. "You just _happened_ to find a Mabari somewhere between here and the hall."

"Quite a coincidence, yes?"

"Quite," Alistair agrees, stepping forward.

Zevran expects him to take the puppy, but instead, he cups Zevran's cheek and kisses him, soft but lingering. "I didn't get you anything."

"Why should you need to?" Zevran says, his careless tone not quite as careless as he meant it to be. "It's but a small thing, and I found it entirely by accident."

 "Of course you did." Alistair kisses him again, nudging at his cheek until Zevran tilts his chin up-

A huge wet tongue bathes the entire left side of his face, and Zevran recoils, almost hitting Alistair as he tries to get his face out of the puppy's reach. "Ugh! If you wish to keep it, then take it, else it will go back to the kennel until it learns better manners."

"Awww," Alistair croons, lifting the puppy from its blankets to hold it up in the air above his own head. "Who's a good boy?"

The puppy wriggles in ecstasy and tries to give Alistair the same treatment it gave Zevran. Whether through luck or some Fereldan instinct for these things, Alistair turns his head in time and so only gets the tip of his ear licked, rather than most of his face. The puppy makes another attempt, and Alistair laughs, the delighted laugh Zevran had wanted to hear even if he would never admit it.

Maybe they won't be making that trip back to the kennel after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love to imagine Zevran having a tug-of-war over the blanket with the puppy in some dark corner of Eamon's courtyard, and the puppy is all "playplayplayPLAY" while Zevran tries very hard to keep his "We Are Not Amused" face on.
> 
>  
> 
> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/155051797242/alistairzevran-and-a-mabari-pup)


	7. Cullen/Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt: "A mabari pup or not decides to imprint/follow Dorian. Cullen is pleased, the rest of skyhold not so much. Dorian is shocked."
> 
> I will not be held responsible for your dentists' bills.

"Make it stop doing that." Dorian's voice hovers somewhere between a command and a plea, and Cullen looks up from his desk, blinking to refocus his eyes after too long squinting at papers.

"Make what stop doing what?" he asks, confused. Dorian is standing in the center of his office, arms crossed firmly over his chest and an impressive scowl on his face, but Cullen can't see anything out of place.

" _That_." For emphasis, Dorian uncrosses his arms long enough to stab a finger at the door to Cullen's left. "Make it stop doing _that_."

For a moment, Cullen doesn't understand, but then he has to duck his head to hide a smile. On the other side of the door, a quiet whine rises and falls, breaking occasionally into barely audible whimpers. The light coming under the door is half blocked, and a pair of furry feet are wedged as far into the gap as they can go.

"If you'd let him in, he'd stop whining," Cullen points out.

Dorian gives him a withering look. "I was hoping for a helpful suggestion, but I see I've come to the wrong place."

"What?" Cullen asks innocently, trying not to smile. "He's loyal, brave, and intelligent. I don't see why you don't want him."

"Hmph." It's a decidedly skeptical noise, but one corner of Dorian's mouth has started to twitch. "As I've already got someone who meets those qualifications, I don't see why I'd need another."

The tips of Cullen's ears burn red, and he spins his pen in his fingers, suddenly awkward. He never knows what to do with Dorian's compliments, not when he knows he doesn't deserve them. Convincing Dorian of that, however, has proven to be a lost cause.

Better to ignore it. "If you don't want him, there has to be someone who does."

"I've tried," Dorian says, aggrieved. "Maker save me, I don't even have to try. Your Fereldans have made it clear I'm not worthy of him, and they've done everything they can to lure him away. Just today, I've seen three different soldiers _and_ a chevalier waste the better part of an hour on new and imaginative attempts."

"Have they tried feeding him?"

"Yes, Commander, they tried that." Dorian's sigh is long-suffering. "Repeatedly. The little bastard takes the food and comes right back to me."

Cullen chokes on a laugh. "Well, at least you've already trained him to heel."

"Not deliberately," Dorian says, pinching the bridge of his nose. In the silence that follows, the puppy's whine rises a little, becoming that much more heartbreakingly pathetic.

"Fine!" Dorian snaps, flinging his hands into the air. "Fine, you win."

He stalks to the door and flings it open, glaring down at the puppy. "Would you like to come in?" he asks, poisonously cordial.

The puppy gives a happy bark and scampers into the room, looking around with its tongue lolling out. Cullen keeps a wary eye on it: he may be Fereldan, but that doesn't mean he wants his boots, his books, or his chairs gnawed into submission. The paperwork, on the other hand...

No, he decides regretfully. No, Josephine would kill him if he did that. Sweet as she appears, he doesn't doubt her ability to exact her retribution should anything unfortunate happen to the letters on his desk.

"Are you happy now?" Dorian asks.

Startled, Cullen looks up, but he's talking to the puppy, who's now sitting at his feet and staring up at him adoringly.

"He certainly looks happy," Cullen says.

"I'm glad one of us is," Dorian says sourly. He stares down at the puppy for a moment longer, then shakes his head and sprawls out in his chair. As he does, he snags the book he'd left upside down on the arm this morning, opening it pointedly.

Cullen smiles and goes back to his paperwork. He writes a quick response to his lieutenants' requisitions before he reaches the bottom of that particular stack, then surveys his desk, trying to decide which of a half dozen crises is actually the most important. There's never a shortage, it seems.

As he's thinking, he glances up idly, not looking for anything so much as taking the excuse to look at Dorian. Dorian, who's now slouched down in his chair, one hand holding his book and the other scratching idly between the puppy's ears. The puppy's head is pressed against the side of his knee, its eyes closed in blissful contentment.

"Are you well, Commander?" Dorian's eyes haven't moved from his book, but there's that tiny smile again, just at the corners of his mouth. "Is there something you need?"

"Nothing at all," Cullen says, no longer trying to hide his own smile. "Absolutely nothing at all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/155162111582/for-cullen-x-dorian-please-a-mabari-pup-or-not)


	8. Alistair/Zevran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For the prompt, "Zevistair. Something modern maybe? Of course major awkwardness and teasing. Idk. Pick a trope. Tattoo artist/first tattoo. Police/partners. Trainer/trainee. Whatever you'd like 'cause you can't go wrong with anything."
> 
> It got away from me a bit, and so it doesn't follow the prompt exactly, but there is teasing and awkwardness.

The diner is like a hundred others Alistair has eaten at over the years: smelling of coffee and fried carbs, with heavily laminated menus and cracked vinyl padding on the booths and silverware that's serviceable but all slightly bent, enough that none of it would nest together neatly in a drawer. Nothing is new, but everything is clean, and the waitress gives them a friendly smile from across the room as they seat themselves.

"Be with you in a sec!" she calls.

Alistair smiles back and waves acknowledgement, already reaching across the table for a menu without looking. His gaze sweeps over the rest of the room, a soldier's habit he's never bothered to break; not looking for anything, just checking that there isn't anything he _should_ be looking for. He's got his menu in hand, his thoughts already on what he's going to eat, when his eyes finish their circuit of the room and stop on the guy at the grill behind the counter.

The hot guy behind the counter. His blond hair is pulled back in a tail to keep it out of his way, and that, combined with his sleeveless t-shirt, leaves a lot of tattooed skin for Alistair to admire. He's got a nice smile, too, one he's quick to flash at the waitress as she drops off the latest order. Whatever she says to him, it makes him laugh, a sound Alistair immediately wants to hear again.

"You're staring," Cullen says from the corner of his mouth, without looking up from his menu. "And it's going to start getting creepy in about three more seconds."

Alistair snaps his eyes down to his own menu, a flush burning across his face. "I am not."

"Not anymore," Cullen agrees blandly.

Across the table, Bull laughs, then laughs harder when Alistair kicks him in the shins. "What?" Bull asks. "I'm not the one who told you to stop."

Before Alistair can answer, the waitress appears at his elbow, coffee carafe in hand. "You boys need a couple minutes?" she asks.

"We're still looking," Cullen says with a completely straight face that doesn't so much as twitch when Alistair's next kick--this one sideways--connects solidly with his ankle. "Trying to figure out what we want."

"Take your time," the waitress says, already reaching for the nearest mug. "Anything you need in the meantime?"

"I think we're good with coffee," Cullen says, still without cracking a smile. "Until we make up our minds about other stuff."

She gives him a slightly puzzled look, like she can tell the subtext is there without understanding it, but she doesn't say anything as she finishes filling all three mugs.

The moment she's gone, Bull slides the small plastic tub of sugar packets across the table to Alistair and smirks at him. "Cream or sugar?"

"I think I'll have a burger," Alistair says pointedly. As soon as the words are out, he wishes he could take them back, but too late.

Bull looks thoughtful for a long time, his eye turned up toward the ceiling, while Cullen studies his menu with way too much focus. When the silence gets to be too much, Alistair says, "Go on, say it."

"Say what?" Bull asks.

"Whatever joke you were going to make about meat, and buns. I know you're thinking it."

"Nah," Bull says. "Too easy."

There are a lot of things Alistair could say to that, but he knows who will win if he starts down that road, and it isn't him. Better to look at his menu and try to decide if a burger is really what he wants.

Still, he can't help but glance back at the counter. The waitress is picking up a plate, and while she's too far away to hear, Alistair can tell she's asking the cook a question. Whatever the question, the guy nods with an easy smile, turning to look around the diner as if counting people.

His gaze crosses Alistair's in passing, then comes back almost immediately, and Alistair realizes he's just been caught staring. Looking away would probably be a good idea--before he proves Cullen right and crosses the line into creepy--but the guy doesn't look bothered. Instead, his smile widens, and he winks.

Alistair's face heats again, even as he smiles back. His heart is starting to beat a little faster, and he's suddenly intensely aware of exactly how scruffy he looks. They've come straight from work, which means he has drywall dust in his hair and on his jeans, and his t-shirt has definitely seen better days. Not to mention the three-days' worth of stubble on his cheeks.

"Sooooo," Cullen says dryly. "Decided what you're having?"

"I hate you," Alistair informs him, tearing his eyes away from the guy behind the counter for the express purpose of glaring at an unrepentant Cullen. "I really hate you."

"Sure you do," Cullen says. "But I'm starving, so how about looking at the menu while you hate me?"

Alistair lifts the menu off the table and shakes it like he's shaking out a newspaper, holding it in front of his face and hiding his view of both Cullen and Bull. It gives him a chance to sneak another look at the guy, but sadly, he's turned away, his back to the diner while he works the grill like a pro. He's always where he needs to be to keep the food from burning, but he doesn't move efficiently: every time he needs to move left, he dances a couple steps to the right first, his whole body tuned to some beat Alistair can't hear.

Beside him, Cullen clears his throat loudly, and Bull starts to laugh. "He's gonna stab you with his fork in a second," Bull says, sounding way too cheerful for someone giving a warning about imminent bodily harm.

"I'm having a burger," Alistair says, putting the menu down and trying to look like he wasn't doing what they know he was doing. "A cheeseburger. With hash browns."

The waitress, on her way past them with someone else's order, smiles at him and says, "I'll be right back, hon."

Except she isn't, not immediately. Despite the fact that they're between her and the counter, she passes them by to have a quick, whispered conversation with the cook, both of them leaning so close they're nearly cheek-to-cheek. And when she gets to their table, her grin is positively evil as she pulls out her notepad, looks straight at Alistair, and says, "His name is Zevran."

"Ummm," Alistair says. "I'm Alistair?"

Bull laughs so hard that Cullen has to order for him, while Alistair tries to decide whether he should hide under the table or just leave the diner completely. A quick glance at the counter shows the guy--Zevran--smiling at him, and Alistair decides maybe he won't do either.

When their food arrives, Alistair almost reconsiders his choice: his hash browns have been cooked and shaped into a heart. No one says anything, at least, though they have to have noticed, and when Alistair glances at Zevran, his grin turns the gesture into something silly instead of weird.

Despite Bull and Cullen's teasing, they linger over their food, ordering another round once the first has been demolished. It gives Alistair plenty of time to watch Zevran dancing around behind the counter, and neither Bull nor Cullen bothers trying to make him part of the conversation. Mostly Alistair focuses on not spilling his coffee on himself, or doing anything similarly graceless.

"All right," Cullen says at last, when they've drunk seven or eight gallons of coffee, and eaten a cow's worth of burgers and at least ten pounds of hash browns. The diner is nearly empty, just them and a guy nursing endless cups of coffee in the far corner. "There's a pile of laundry with my name on it at home."

He drops enough money for a generous tip on the table, then nudges Alistair none-too-gently, shoving him out of the booth to give himself room to stand. Disappointed, Alistair takes a last look at Zevran, whose cocked head is asking a question Alistair isn't sure he's brave enough to answer.

While he's distracted, Cullen's hand clamps down on his shoulder, turning him bodily around and shoving him back down into the booth. "See you tomorrow," he says, enunciating the last word.

Bull grins but says nothing, slapping Alistair on the shoulder on his way by, and then Alistair is alone at the table, clutching his coffee mug like a lifeline. He doesn't dare look up now, afraid of somehow blowing it. What's he supposed to do? Or say? He's never been smooth, and as soon as he opens his mouth, he knows his foot will go straight into it.

"Would you like a refill?" someone asks from beside him. A male voice with an Antivan accent. Definitely not the waitress.

Alistair raises his eyes slowly, and yes, it's Zevran, standing there with the coffee carafe in one hand and a plate in the other.

"Or some company?" Zevran asks, when Alistair just blinks at him like an idiot.

"No!" Alistair blurts out, because he doesn't want more coffee, then realizes how that will sound. "I mean yes!" That's not any better. He closes his eyes and covers his face with one hand. "No to the coffee, yes to the company."

Zevran laughs and slides into the booth across from him. "Wonderful." He sets the coffee carafe down at the end of the table and picks up his knife and fork, holding them poised over his plate. "As I have perhaps ten minutes before someone else arrives, I believe I will cut to the chase. I will next be off on Wednesday. Do you, by any chance, have plans for that evening?"

Alistair swallows hard. Smooth. He needs to be smooth. What should he say?

He's complete shit at smooth. What would Bull say?

"Well," he says, drawing the word out to give himself time to gather his courage, "I don't have any plans right now, but there's this guy I was hoping might be free."

Zevran nods thoughtfully and takes a bite of the hash browns piled on his plate. "Hmmm. And is he as attractive as myself?"

"Almost."

"As charming?"

Alistair fights down a smile, trying to match Zevran's nonchalance. "Probably not."

"Well then," Zevran says, like everything is settled. "Forget about him. He would bore you, and that would be a tragedy."

"A tragedy," Alistair echoes. His heart pounds in his throat, nearly blocking his words. "So I guess I'm free, then. What, uhhh, what do you want to do?"

Zevran's smile is blinding. "Quite a number of things we should not discuss in public. But I will tell you all of them on Wednesday."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/155258899737/prompt-2-for-fluffy-new-year-2017-zevistair)


	9. Bull/Cullen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> OK, one more. For an anon on tumblr who wanted to see Dorian's scheming during [Jump In](http://archiveofourown.org/works/7034413/chapters/16004938). I wrote part of this a while ago and forgot about it, so the reminder was perfect. It's not really anything to do with Dorian's scheming, but it is from his POV. Enjoy!

Of all the people Dorian knows, Mia has to be the last one he expects to cock-block him, but it’s definitely her vice-like grip on his arm and her falsely sincere voice saying, “Sorry, give us a second,” to the man Dorian had been successfully seducing prior to this unexpected interruption.

“For your sake, I hope this is important,” he says as she drags him away. All he can manage is a quick look over his shoulder to mouth “be right back” to Rilienus, who’s looking lost and gratifyingly disappointed at Dorian’s sudden departure.

“It’s important,” Mia says, towing him through the crowded party without seeming to care who she pushes aside.

“ _Very_ important,” Dorian says.

“It is.” She comes to an abrupt halt and turns around before Dorian can step back. Her hands squeeze both sides of his face, pulling his chin down so he’s staring into her eyes from less than six inches away.

“It had better be,” Dorian says, “because I was about to ask that very nice man if he wanted to take me home…”

“Look to your left,” Mia hisses.

“…and I’m very sure he would have said yes,” Dorian continues, ignoring her instruction, “except that now he might possibly be under the impression that I have a jealous girlfriend.”

“Look to your left,” Mia says again, her eyes boring into his.

“If someone isn’t taking no for an answer,” Dorian says, trying to sound slightly less annoyed, “Bull would probably be more effective as a fake boyfriend.”

Mia shakes his head from side to side. Hard. Her fingers are probably leaving dents in his cheekbones. “Look. To. Your. Left.”

Dorian heaves an exasperated sigh and looks to his left as best he can with Mia’s hands on his cheeks. There’s the expected crowd of people, drinking and talking and laughing, and the back of Bull’s head as he moves toward the door. There’s nothing unusual about any of it, except maybe that Bull isn’t stopping to talk to anyone as he crosses the room. Which is, Dorian will admit, a little unusual, but it’s always possible Bull is just stepping outside to answer his phone.

About to ask Mia what he’s supposed to see, Dorian’s attention is caught by Cullen, following in Bull’s wake and staying close. Very close. Unusually close.

At the closet, Bull stops and retrieves his coat, then Cullen’s. Cullen yanks it on like he’s in a huge rush, his head ducked down to avoid eye contact with anyone. Dorian frowns, but before he can say anything, Bull turns away from the closet and into Cullen’s personal space. It’s understandable in the close confines of the party, almost a requirement if Bull wants to be able to close the closet door.

Rather than step back to give him room, though, Cullen sways toward Bull, his head coming up as if pulled on a string. And Bull leans toward him for just a second before turning away to escort Cullen through the front door without quite touching him.

If not for Mia’s hands on his face, Dorian knows his mouth would be hanging open.

“You tell me,” Mia says with deep satisfaction. “Is that important?”

###

At work on Saturday morning, Dorian watches the library’s main doors constantly, leaning sideways whenever anyone steps into his line of sight even if that person happens to be talking to him at the time. The later it gets, the more he smirks, and when there’s no sign of either Bull or Cullen by noon, he’s almost laughing to himself.

At ten minutes after one, Dorian is debating whether he still has plausible deniability if he texts them when the doors open on Cullen, Bull close behind him. They’re talking about something, smiling at each other in the nauseating way of new couples everywhere, and Dorian has to scrub a hand over his face to wipe away his smile.

He would have given it even odds that Cullen, at least, would try to avoid him completely, but no, they’re definitely headed in his directions. As they get closer, Cullen sets his jaw like he’s bracing for a fight, and the first words out of his mouth are, “Go ahead and say it.”

“Say what?” Dorian asks innocently.

The tips of Cullen’s ears are almost glowing. “Whatever you’re going to say.”

There are so many possible responses to that, Dorian has to pause and consider which is best. As he’s thinking, he looks at Cullen and sees the fear hiding behind his tight jaw and joking words.

Between one second and the next, Dorian abandons all the sarcastic and teasing lines he’s had twelve hours to perfect. Instead, he leans across the desk to hook one finger in the collar of Cullen’s shirt and drag him close enough for a kiss on the cheek. “Did you really think I’d be mad?” he asks, in a voice too low for even Bull to hear.

“I wasn’t sure,” Cullen admits, just as quietly. “I know how important he is to you.”

Dorian pushes him gently away and raises his voice just enough for Bull to hear, though he keeps his eyes on Cullen. “Are you happy?”

“Yes,” Cullen says instantly, and behind him, Bull nods.

“Then why wouldn’t I be?” Dorian asks.

“Because that’s not how people work,” Bull says. “Not always.”

When Dorian looks at him, he’s surprised by the relief on Bull’s face. For all the years he’s worked for Bull’s approval, it’s never occurred to him that the need might run both ways.

It’s strange and unsettling, and so he does what he’s always done when he doesn’t know what to say: he falls back on sarcasm. “Well, I can’t help it if not everyone is as perfect as I am.”

Bull grins, Cullen rolls his eyes, and Dorian knows they understand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [on tumblr](http://dragonflies-and-katydids.tumblr.com/post/155267404142/i-dont-know-if-youre-still-taking-prompts-for)


End file.
